The Drones

Valentine's Day. The normally bustling five-points corner of Chicago's Wicker Park neighborhood was almost serene, only the murmur of passing lovebirds shuffling home from romantic dinners. But inside the Double Door, just off the corner, the scene was a little scruffier. Girls with frocked Chrissie Hynde hairdos huddled in groups while parka'd dudes pounded back PBRs, and onstage Sybris got into the spirit with some R-rated chatter. "Be sure to check out our finger-banging booth in the back," one of the guys in Sybris offered sarcastically. What a romantic. But the boozy sensibility in the room-- something much gruffer than warm and cuddly-- was about right for what this was: scraggly rock bands playing music with gravity on a manufactured holiday.

Sybris and the Ponys, the other bands on the bill, are hometown heroes. But the Drones, from Melbourne, fit right in. Their sound is an afflicted howl, like a lament in the cathedral of feedback. There's something like folk or blues sloshing around at the bottoms of their songs, and when Gareth Liddiard sings like he's gasping for air or another drink, you start to imagine you're seeing Shane McGowan standing just off stage. Liddiard was the center of everything for the Drones' set-- propped like a rusty spindle at the center of the stage, he was flanked by icy brunette bassist Fiona Kitchin on one side and the supporting Fender wrangle of Rui Pereira on the other, with drummer Mike Noga crashing along supportively back there in the crimson-tinted shadows. He would rend the neck of his guitar to get these bent and scraping notes, and bang on the pickups with a closed fist before reaching back up to the mic to choke out another couplet of anger split with mourning. What was driving the conflicting emotions in "Baby2" and "Sitting on the Edge of the Bed Cryin'" wasn't really clear-- it isn't on Wait Long by the River and the Bodies of Your Enemies Will Float By, either. But live, as on record, what mattered was the way those grave lyrics interchanged with the peels of treble and feedback and muddy, puttin'-the-hurt-on bass lines. There's an enveloping quality to the Drones' songs-- like feeling your boot sink into silt and seaweed that lies unseen just beneath the brown water-- and that's how it felt from the crowd, even if the band seemed a little distracted.

It's not like they didn't want to be there. They pulled off "Locust" and "Shark Fin Blues" with determined tact, leveling out the rhythms when Liddiard started whispering hoarsely (sometimes so hoarsely it didn't sound like words but the exhalation of a cigarette) and turning up the intensity when the songs called for it. But there was the sense that they were just doing it again, for another crowd in another town. Well, forgive the Drones for not showering the crowd with 'Be Mine' hearts. From the gripping whine and very real gloom in their songs, love and happiness have certainly never been their style. Even if this show was on some kind of floofy greeting card holiday.